The Death of the Scarlet Pimpernel
by AlpineSheep
Summary: What if Chauvelin actually succeeded in killing Sir Percy? Would he be as satisfied as he thinks he will? Character study on Chauvelin. Rated for brief mild language, and some action violence.
1. Chapter 1: The Chase

**A/N:** Obviously, from the title, something really bad happens in this story, but before you sentence me to the guillotine for killing Percy, at least read the end! I can't give anything away here, but you might end up forgiving me after all. One last note - I reference multiple books in the Scarlet Pimpernel series in this story. Most of them are vague enough that they don't qualify for spoilers but are better if you have previously read the series, but if you haven't read "The Scarlet Pimpernel" (obviously) or "Sir Percy Hits Back" (maybe even "Eldorado" if your memory serves you too well) you will be exposed to some serious spoilers. Read those first and then come back! Special thanks to Baroness Orc for the very helpful beta :)

Read and enjoy! Reviews always appreciated!

Chapter One: The Chase

Sir Percy Blakeney was determined. If he was going to die he was not going to be trapped inside a miserable and dark prison cell, stripped of his humanity, wavering on the edge of insanity. No, it would be in the open air, under the light of the moon, with the sky above him, freedom coursing through his veins, and a fresh breeze in his face. Blakeney had been imprisoned before by his enemies and had absolutely no wish to repeat the experience – that was why he ran now, his feet pounding swiftly upon the dead grass. It was a desperate situation in which Chance had decided to shave off that one unsightly hair that the Scarlet Pimpernel was so famous for having the talent of catching hold of, leaving him to catch in vain. Oh, but it had been glorious sport! As the musket balls whistled past his head, Blakeney recalled the incidents that had led up to his current predicament...

* * *

It had been the plight of two innocent little girls. Their family had already been executed, and it was deemed that they should be brought up in misery, taught to be godless and vile, raised by those who despise goodness – indeed, it was not an uncommon occurrence in those days. However, the Pimpernel and his band of men were always ready to defend those who were not strong enough to help themselves and so they had set out to rescue these children. Armand Chauvelin, agent of the Republic of France and sworn enemy of the Scarlet Pimpernel, was ever dogging the Pimpernel's movements throughout the country and was always watching for a chance to trap him. He had seen his chance in these two girls as a means for capturing his gallant foe and had laid his plans well. Blakeney had been aware of the trap, but did not let it deter him from his purpose. Had he not worked his way in and out of traps before?

As he had done so many times past, he wittingly put himself in harm's way, and as he had done an equal number of times before, he had succeeded. The girls were snatched in the night from their captors and safely off with their rescuers before Chauvelin's men had even realized what had happened. However, what had made this night different from any other adventure was that Chauvelin had not overlooked a single detail this time. He had anticipated his enemy's schemes and soon had an entire squadron of soldiers riding on the heels of the two who had sought to spirit the girls away. There had been no time to double back, not a spare moment to engineer some trick or ruse to throw the pursuers off, it was just hell-for-leather as Blakeney and Dewhurst whipped their horses to a frenzied speed, each holding closely a weary little girl. The soldiers' horses were gaining - with such relative ease that they did not even bother to fire their guns - and Blakeney had only been able to think up one plan. It was not his most brilliant, but perhaps was his most selfless – or foolhardy – and it was the only way he could manage the rescue of the girls. Flinging off his coat into the faces of the closely pursuing horses caused enough of a distraction to startle them and buy him the few seconds he needed. Bidding Dewhurst to follow his lead he slowed his horse to a trot, enabling him to hand the girl he had been carrying in front of him to his friend. This left Dewhurst with both children and he arranged the sisters carefully on the front of his saddle. The two speedily spurred to a gallop again, their recovered pursuers once again on their tails.

"Continue to the Daydream with Holte and Everingham as planned, Tony!" Blakeney had ordered Dewhurst. "It is me they want, with any luck I can shake them and join you later!"

Good old Tony, Blakeney thought to himself, he had obeyed so well, even though he would scarcely be able to bear leaving his chief to fight alone. After his friend had gone ahead, Blakeney had then turned his horse off the road in hopes of luring the pursuers off. At first it hadn't worked, as the soldiers were unable to distinguish in the darkness which of the two were the Scarlet Pimpernel, and they had continued to pursue Tony. Blakeney had observed this and had ridden to the crest of a hill, his horse rearing from the abrupt halt, as he called out as loud as he could muster,

"Chauvelin! I do believe it is me you want! A nous deux, Monsieur Chambertin! A nous deux!" He laughed an echoing inane laugh.

Chauvelin had heard the cry, one he had often used himself toward his foe. Pulling his own horse to a halt he had rallied his men, pulling away from the rapidly disappearing Dewhurst, safe with his young charges. Chauvelin had looked at the impudent man now daring him to follow. The challenge was exactly what Chauvelin had hoped for. He cared not whether the girls lived or died, his sole purpose had been to capture and destroy the Pimpernel, and now there he was before his very eyes.

As soon as Percy had attracted the attention of his enemy, he had turned his horse and galloped away. Chauvelin and his men pursued him hotly. They now started firing on him with their pistols and muskets, eventually shooting down Blakeney's horse. Blakeney, agile as a cat, suffered no injury from the fall and had set off running, leaving him in the predicament he was in now. He had a tolerable headstart, but it was clear that options were disappearing quickly as a man can only run so long on foot with horses in pursuit.

* * *

"Running like a demmed fox before hounds," he muttered as he ran. Foxhunting had been something of a favorite pastime for him back in England, however, now as he was running for his life before the bloodthirsty pack behind him, Blakeney couldn't help but feel sympathy for the poor creatures that were hunted down and killed. He was not unlike one of them now, a cunning fox or powerful stag that must throw his enemies off his trail at all costs.

His quick mind was racing now to find some means for evading his pursuers – a chance to double back, an impenetrable hiding place, a convenient disguise – but there was nothing in this field. Nothing but that high, iron-wrought gate up ahead, now _that_ might be of some use. It would be locked, of that he was sure, which would infinitely serve his purposes. He was soon upon it and with the speed and strength that had so often before defied his pursuers, Blakeney had pulled himself up and over the gate. Chauvelin and his men were forced to a stop as they reached this obstacle. No horse could jump a gate that high. Scrambling and cursing, they found their own way over this inconvenient impediment, leaving their horses behind on the other side. Chauvelin and his men now pursued Blakeney on foot, the soldiers pausing every so often to discharge their rifles at the now more distant figure, who had – despite the soldiers' advantage of being somewhat fresher than he – managed to increase the gap between them from sheer ability and will-power. Chauvelin himself was not quite as spry as he had once been, and under ordinary circumstances would have been left far behind by now, but the thrill of the chase had lent vigor to his thin frame and he kept pace as well as any of the soldiers – even to the extent of outdistancing a few as he was not encumbered with the weight of weaponry and ammunition.

Chauvelin did not stop his men from shooting. Even though nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to see his enemy's head drop from the knife of the guillotine, the simple knowledge that the Pimpernel was dead or at least severely wounded and in his power was a victory Chauvelin was not about to make the mistake of letting pass. As it was, the sight of Blakeney running before them was quite a soothing balm to the wounds his pride had received at the hands of that man.

The great breaths of air Blakeney had to take in were now beginning to burn in his lungs but were also strong with the scent of the sea, which could not now be many yards away. He could picture in his mind's eye, the Daydream, anchored safely offshore, awaiting the reception of the young refugees. Perhaps he might reach it as well. The shoreline was soon reached and Blakeney descended the rocky incline in great, agile bounds. It was the rugged coast of Calais, quite near the place where Chauvelin and the Scarlet Pimpernel had first matched their wits against the other, marking the beginning of a long series of embarrassing defeats for Chauvelin. Marguerite had been so brave that night, Blakeney recalled, he must try to live now, for her sake. It would be infinitely wrong to take the cruel absences he made so often from her presence and turn them into such a permanent thing as death.

He reached the water's edge and paused. There was little sound this night, naught but the crash of the waves and the lone cry of a sea mew, the soldiers had ceased their shooting as they needed their hands to be free for descending the steep rocky decline.

His pause had been of the briefest of instants before Blakeney had made an equally brief scan of the moonlit beach. He quickly assessed what his location must be and considered how far he would have to go before he reached the Daydream. A little ways from him was moored a rowboat – something that might prove invaluable to him if he could but launch it in time. Blakeney sprinted for the boat as the soldiers and Chauvelin were still occupied in their climb. The boat was tied to a post with rope, and as he had no knife with which to cut, he knew it would be of no use to waste valuable time in attempting to untie the cord, tightened with the tugging of the drifting boat. Chauvelin and his men were now nearly on the beach, several kneeled and aimed their rifles as the others continued to run on ahead, hoping to make good his capture now that he was supposedly cornered.

Blakeney ran a little ways further and dove into the dark and cold surf, striking out with powerful strokes. He made it quite evident that he would soon be out of range of his enemies' rifles if nothing were done soon.

The soldiers had fired their guns as their quarry made this unexpected move and in a few moments, all gathered at the edge of the waves, temporarily uncertain of what should be done next, watching as the one they sought put more and more distance between them. Most of the group, Chauvelin included, couldn't swim, and the others could only do so very poorly. Chauvelin roused his men from their stuporous gaze and said, "Launch the boat, you idiots! He's getting away!"

The men did as they were told. Three had to be left behind, as there wasn't enough room in the boat for all of them. They were then given strict orders to ensure the Pimpernel didn't try to double back to shore. Chauvelin sat at the bow of the boat as the soldiers pushed it past the surf and started to row. He discovered that he was sitting on a lantern, which he promptly lit, and held out over the water to seek his enemy in the shroud-like darkness. He could just make out the silhouette of Blakeney's head some distance away, and his arms as he reached for each stroke.

"Faster! Row faster for God's sake!" he hissed to his men and fixed his pale eyes on that now not so distant figure. He could not escape, not now! Not when he was this close! He was so close to victory, Chauvelin could almost feel it, but he had felt this way, many times before, and every time, he had been duped and victory had been snatched from him. "Not this time," he seethed under his breath. "Not this time!"


	2. Chapter 2: To Aid

Chapter Two: To Aid

The Daydream rose and fell silently with the ocean swells, save for the occasional noise of a creaking rope. Upon the deck, a few young men had assembled, leaning against rigging and mast, obviously waiting intently for something to come. A sound, not unlike thunder, had reached their ears. It was the sound of gunshots echoing through the night.

"Do you think those gunshots are for Percy and Tony?" one of them murmured.

"Hush! Marguerite is coming!"

The young man turned and noted the truth of his companion's words, for a graceful young woman was making her way up from below deck, and came to join them in their watch. She could see the concern on their faces that they were making gallant attempts to disguise but she said nothing. It was not yet time for the rescue party to rejoin them and so therefore easier to hope that all would be well.

It was Sir Andrew who sighted the returning boat first, making its way toward them in the dark waters of the English Channel. Not long after that, as the boat drew nearer, it became evident that the boat only held the two children and three men, when there should have been four men. Marguerite's heart froze, but she refused to let herself panic until she knew for certain what the present situation was to be. The boat bumped gently against the side of the yacht and the men on deck aided in hoisting up the passengers.

Marguerite noted immediately that her husband was not among them and, eager for news, hastened to Lord Tony's side the instant he set foot on deck and delivered his young charges to another member of their league. Sir David Holte, and Lord Everingham, the two oarsmen of the small craft, wore expressions of a terribly grim nature, and Tony looked as though he had just come back from a battle that he was particularly anxious to go back and finish, this time to win.

"Tony," Marguerite said, voicing the question that was upon every mind of the group waiting on deck, "Where is Percy?"

Tony murmured some brief words to Sir Andrew before replying. "Lady Blakeney, don't worry," he said hastily, hoping that saying these words first would somehow make the rest of what he had to say less terrible, "Things went wrong. Chauvelin and his men were after us. Percy led them on after him so that the children could escape. Now they are safe and my duty is done toward them and I and any man who will join me are free to return to shore and give Percy every ounce of aid we may provide. Aye, even to lay down our very lives. Percy is quite compromised and time is of the essence."

Andrew was now rounding up the men on board and issuing soldier's disguises. A bundle was thrust at Dewhurst.

"I shall come with you!" Marguerite cried.

"No, stay with the girls," Tony blurted in consternation, "the danger is too great for you to come with us. Percy would not hear of it and I doubt we even know what our plan shall be once we reach shore. I could not put your life in jeopardy in such a reckless endeavor-,"

"Reckless or not he is my husband!" Marguerite hissed, "And if there is some small thing I may do to help him I want to be there to do it or to die by his side! The children will be fine, there will be those upon the ship to tend them-,"

"You have no disguise."

"It is dark, I will put on an old cloak and make the best of it."

"Lady Blakeney-" Dewhurst protested.

"Lord Dewhurst!" Marguerite countered, desperate to suceed, "If you do not let me ride with you in your boat then I will swim to shore or die trying in the attempt. If the situation is as grave as you say it is"

There was just enough moonlight to illuminate the fire in Marguerite Blakeney's eyes and reveal the determination that had set in her jaw and mouth. She was not a woman to be gainsaid.

Six uniformed men comprising every league member present on board ship swarmed out of the ship's cabin, looking quite the squad of Revolutionary soldiers, and clambered over the side of the yacht into the rowboat. Andrew stood at the bow and called up, "Dewhurst! Be quick man!"

Tony turned in indecision and replied, "What of Lady Blakeney?"

Andrew looked up and his eyes caught Marguerite's. A knowing look born of past experience passed between the two and he nodded. "Let her come."

"Very well," Tony said, and added aside to himself, "I will regret this, I know I will. God, let it not be that I must reunite her with a dead husband, as I greatly fear I shall."

Marguerite readied herself so rapidly that not an instant was lost because of her. Every man by now had been apprised of the situation and it was a seemingly interminable time before they reached the shore.

"Any plan yet?" Marguerite murmured to Sir Andrew as they stepped ashore and secured the boat.

"Nothing grand," he replied, "We must attempt to reach Percy, perhaps cause a convenient disturbance or ruse that will enable us to shake the French off his trail. Which way Dewhurst?

"The last I saw, and judging by what I have heard, they went this way," Tony gestured into the darkness.

"Quick then!" Andrew beckoned.

They set off at a brisk jog, Marguerite keeping pace well for she was strong and could run if needed, and made their way through woods, finally gaining the coastal road which took them directly through a small fishing village. Here they slowed their pace to a walk and Marguerite walked a little ways ahead, thus hoping to avoid casting suspicion upon the league's disguise. Suddenly, a man mounted upon a galloping horse charged through the darkness and into the dimly lit village.

"To arms! To arms!" The officer in uniform cried out from atop his horse as he rode. "Citizen Chauvelin has the Scarlet Pimpernel on the run and every man is called to help him! To arms!" A few ragged soldiers here and there were beginning to join him.

"This could be our chance," Sir Andrew Ffoulkes whispered hurriedly to Dewhurst, "At any rate, if we join the party, we're sure to find Blakeney sooner than if we seek him like this, and what better way to invent a ruse than to comprise half of Chauvelin's supposedly trustworthy men?"

"You there!" the officer cried suddenly, pointing to the disguised league members, "Come! Every man is needed. What are your orders?"

"It looks like we have little choice now," Tony murmured to his friend. "We are guards, Citizen!" he called to the officer.

"You can be spared to come with us then! I shall take charge of you, come! We must be off!"

Perhaps, if the flock of gathering villagers had not taken the care of bringing numerous lanterns outside with them so that they might the better see the action taking place, or perhaps, if the wind had not gusted so strongly just at that time, forcing Marguerite to struggle with her hood and thus turn to face the light, events may have taken a different turn. But as it was, there was a great deal of light on the street, and Marguerite did turn to face it, just as one of the ragged soldiers happened to be looking her way. And strangely, as things would happen, the man recognized her.

"There is the English Spy's wife!" he cried, pointing an accusing finger at her.

Galveston and Glynde surged forward from the league members and made as though they seized Marguerite, hoping to somehow keep the situation under control.

"Can you be sure?" The officer asked the soldier.

"Aye, I have kept watch on her once before on Citizen Chauvelin's orders to detain her. I would know her anywhere. Let her deny it if she can!"

There seemed little point in contesting the matter. Marguerite knew she had little in the way of identification to prove herself otherwise, and besides, an alternative plan was beginning to form in her mind.

"She could be useful." The officer decided, "You two keep her under guard in that inn yonder until we hear what Citizen Chauvelin would like to do about her."

Galveston and Glynde saluted the officer and led Marguerite in the direction of the inn as the rest of the soldiers, league members, and the officer made their way off into the darkness.

"Let us take you back to the Daydream," Glynde offered.

"No," Marguerite said quietly. "I believe this will work well. If Chauvelin believes I am in his power, when quite the opposite is true it could lead to the gaining of useful information. Take me to the inn, pretend to guard me, and let Chauvelin through if he desires an audience. If the situation takes a turn for the worse we shall abandon this plan and make our escape as best we can."

Glynde and Galveston exchanged looks of resignation. It seemed protesting had made little effect on Marguerite before, and was equally as unlikely to be effective now. Reluctantly, therefore, they followed through with the ruse and saw Lady Blakeney situated comfortably in a warm room


	3. Chapter 3: The Shot

**A/N: **Thanks for the reviews! I can't seem to figure out how to reply to them, so let me say here that I thank you and they are much appreciated!

Chapter Three: The Shot

Chauvelin's arm was growing stiff from holding the lantern out above the water but he heeded it little. Every muscle within him was straining, hoping somehow by the effort of will to make the boat go faster and overtake his elusive prey. They were closing in on that blonde head now, he was coming within firing range, a few moments more and they might be right upon him.

Suddenly, the head disappeared beneath the surface.

"Balance yourselves!" Chauvelin ordered his men, "Balance out the boat lest he attempt to tip us over in the water."

The men fearfully obeyed his command, particularly those who could not swim, and all sat still, awaiting what might happen. A faint splash caused Chauvelin to raise his lantern, finding to his dismay, that his cunning foe had just swum quite a distance beneath the surface of the water, greatly increasing the gap between himself and the boat.

"Row men! After him! This time fire upon him as soon as he is within range!" Chauvelin was beginning to feel helpless – and oh how he hated feeling helpless! Even in the direst of straits the Pimpernel always seemed to be able to outwit him somehow. He must not let him win again! The men began to fire as ordered, the moment Blakeney came within range of their guns. A whole volley of bullets descended around Sir Percy like rain, but apparently, not one managed to hit him. The soldiers paused to reload and Blakeney slipped back beneath the surface to swim away once more.

"Keep rowing, you fools," Chauvelin seethed, "Here! Give me your gun!" he snatched a rifle from one of the men, "You damned idiots are certainly the worst shots I have ever had the misfortune of depending on. Is this gun primed?"

The soldier nodded.

"Good," Chauvelin cocked back the hammer of the weapon, "Now you, hold the lantern out well and we shall see if I cannot hit the mark." Chauvelin braced the rifle against his shoulder and aligned the sights out upon the distant waters where Blakeney might be expected to reappear. No sound was heard but the splash of the oars driving fiercely through the water by the oarsmen, anxious to avert the wrath of their superior. Chauvelin mulled silently over where he should place his aim. Should he try to wound his enemy? Or should he take no risks and aim to kill? Chauvelin began to realize he had never done quite this sort of thing before and some doubt crept into his mind as to how effective this tactic would be.

Suddenly, much closer than Chauvelin had been anticipating, there he was, wet blonde hair plastered down on his head and taking in a great breath from the added exertion of having to remain under water. It was the back of Sir Percy Blakeney, the Scarlet Pimpernel, the Prince of Dandies, Chauvelin's worst enemy, and he was scarcely four feet away, right in front of Chauvelin's very nose. Whether it was instinctive, or a simple matter of pure reflexes triggered from his startle, Chauvelin suddenly realized he had pulled the trigger of his gun. The blast kicked the butt of the piece heavily into Chauvelin's thin frame and he staggered back, nearly losing his balance in the gently rocking boat.

Blakeney stiffened in the water and a low groan escaped his mouth.

Chauvelin could hardly believe what the light of the lantern revealed. Blood began to stain the dark seawater, and the blonde head sank silently into its depths. Chauvelin stared at the blood, and at the bubbles constituting his enemy's last breath. Smoke curled from the muzzle of the rifle and disappeared into the stiff sea breeze.

Was it really over? The fact that he had been unable to exercise his usual measure of control over this moment made it seem to him somehow, anticlimactic, abrupt, and unexpected. Despite all the effort he and his men had just made it still seemed too easy. Years and years of tracking down and attempting to trap and kill the Pimpernel seemed to dictate that he could not die from a bullet shot into his back as he made attempts to escape. No, it must be much harder than that! Even as they had pursued him, Chauvelin had somehow never expected to win, even though he had been straining for it with every nerve. And yet, Chauvelin found himself coming to the realization that it had finally happened, and that it had been by his own hand. He lowered the rifle and continued to stare at the circle of blood – there were no bubbles now. The Scarlet Pimpernel was finally dead.

Did the wind now sigh in mourning? Did the stars plead with the clouds to cover them so that they might no longer look upon the sight of such a tragedy? Did England become that night, a little foggier and a little rainier, now that her hero was dead?

Chauvelin stared at the black depths of the cold seawater and a smirk of triumph curled his lip. At last, at long last he had finished off his mortal enemy! The Scarlet Pimpernel was dead! Nevermore would he thwart Chauvelin's plans! Nevermore would he be the cause of Chauvelin's shame and disgrace! The name of the Scarlet Pimpernel would from now on be sweet to his ears because that man was now dead and by Chauvelin's own hand.

What had Blakeney done to deserve death?

Chauvelin was startled to find this thought in his mind and considered for the first time, what crime had this man committed that was so great that he should be banished from life on this earth. He had willingly given his life for others, and Chauvelin had been the man to take that life – perhaps a much greater life than his own. He had simply risked himself for the sake of two little girls, not even his own children. Chauvelin himself had once had a little girl of his own…he stopped himself abruptly. Why was he getting sentimental about this? He had never been sentimental before! This was his victory! His enemy was dead, he should rejoice! He told himself that these unusual feelings were the result of having been so intimately responsible for a man's death, he was much more accustomed to the coolness of sentencing people to the guillotine.

"Well done, Citizen Chauvelin!" congratulated the soldier with the lantern, "You have killed him!"

"So it seems," Chauvelin smiled dryly. "Come, let us go back to shore." The soldiers cheered and congratulated themselves on the rewards that were sure to be bestowed upon them soon for their aid and set to rowing – half talking excitedly and half rowing so that their return to shore was quite lengthy indeed. Land was quite a distance away, Blakeney had swum well in his endeavors. Chauvelin gazed a moment or two more at the spot he had last seen his foe and watched the water as the boat began to put distance between them. Not a ripple broke the surface of the gentle swells of the sea. The cold, dark stillness of it seemed to reach out and grip Chauvelin, causing him to shudder in spite of himself at the nearness of the shadow of death. He turned from the sight abruptly and felt an unexpected relief that the boat would soon reach shore.


	4. Chapter 4: Chauvelin Contemplates

Chapter Four: Chauvelin Contemplates

Chauvelin laid the rifle down inside the boat and took his seat in the bow. He rubbed his thin, bony hands together as he thought of how his name had been cleared from ignominy and of how he would finally be able to raise his head high amongst his peers. Indeed, he would stand with the highest of them now! He had avenged himself of those countless humiliations. Yes…those humiliations.

Chauvelin did not care to recount nor recall these misadventures at this moment lest they spoil his triumph. Yet, whether he wished to do so or not, he did remember those times of shame. How often these scenes of defeat had played before his mind! So often that they came quite easily to him now, ghosts of disgrace that haunted his mind and soul.

The first incident had been here, at Calais. Oh how confident he had been then! It was his first matching of wits with the Pimpernel and Chauvelin had been calmly secure in knowing he had set a trap that would catch any mortal being. The shock and anger he had felt at this first disappointment had been immeasurable. Now the challenge had been made! He would not let this impudent fellow get away so easily again!

Their next clash of intellect had occurred at Boulogne. He had not sought then to capture his foe, but rather to stain his reputation. To soil the Scarlet Pimpernel so deeply that it might never dare raise it's head again. But just when all had seemed in his favor – indeed, that time Chauvelin had actually been allowed nearly half an hour of believing he had won – Blakeney had outwitted him again. The letter tarnishing his name had been whisked out of their grasp and he had walked openly out of the gates of the city with his wife at his side – leaving Chauvelin bound hand and foot in a cell behind them. That had been mortifying.

That was not the only time Chauvelin was to be disposed of with ropes. At the chateau of La Rodiere Blakeney had disguised himself as a ragged musician – and had tied Chauvelin up and thrown him in the wine cellar. There had been other embarrassments – the Lannoy case, where Blakeney had assumed the disguise of a man known as Mole`. Chauvelin had captured him and thrown him in prison, only to find that he had in fact, captured the real Mole`, and not the elusive Pimpernel.

Then there had been that night – Chauvelin shuddered as he thought of it – Blakeney had contrived to obtain a packet of receipts compromising Chauvelin's fellow patriots. But Blakeney would not give them to him until he had personally escorted the Pimpernel and a whole coachful of traitors to the Republic safely out of Paris and then applied his signature to numerous safe-conducts that his enemy could use later. Those had been the days that he had put the interests of his cause before the passions of his hatred.

Chauvelin had not been so loyal to the Republic in the case of the Sucy diamonds. He had all but abandoned his former plans to capture the aristos in this matter once he was certain he had sighted Blakeney. It had turned out to be naught but a ruse, a queer bet in which Blakeney had exchanged his disguise with an ordinary citizen, and Chauvelin had lost the jewels, the aristos, and – yet again – the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Oh he should never have ridden ahead that one evening! Blakeney had been in his power, he had been his prisoner! His to torture and mock! He could have killed him when he had the chance! But Blakeney, out of the very prisons of France had eluded Chauvelin and escaped just when Chauvelin was most certain of his own victory.

Then there had been Fleurette. Chauvelin felt sick to his stomach every time he recalled how hideous it had been that he should be so incompetent that he could not save even his own daughter. His pride and joy. The only creature on earth he had loved, cherished and guarded. The leering faces of his compatriots circled about him as he remembered how they had reveled in his agony and laughed in their sport of tearing away and seeking to devour with their evil, his only child. How then had he been brought face to face with everything he stood for! Laws that he himself had helped to enact were ensnaring and taking his daughter to her death, his own child that Chauvelin would have laid his very life down for. Then Blakeney had stepped in and rescued her, taking her away to England with her soon-to-be husband, Amede Colombe. Chauvelin had not seen her since, but wondered how she fared and whether or not she cherished but a little remnant of her former love and adoration for her father.

Chauvelin did not care to think much on that episode either. He could not understand why Blakeney would have risked his life to save Chauvelin's own dearest interests. Chauvelin knew that if he had been in Blakeney's place, it would have served him a perfect opportunity for revenge – but Blakeney had not taken it, at least not in the way Chauvelin would have.

No, he need never think upon these things again now if he so wished. His enemy was dead and could never more trouble him. His own personal foe, vanquished. One who had managed to foil him – and how Chauvelin hated to be foiled! He attempted to savor this moment now, as sudden as his victory had been. Chauvelin began to feel slightly irritated that his vengeance had not been made as complete as he would have liked it to be. He should dearly have loved to put in some sarcastic, biting last words to the man. A little gloating perhaps? A reminder to that tiresomely superior person that at the last, he, Chauvelin had been the victor! Blakeney had always gotten the last word in with his victories over his enemy. But not Chauvelin, he had just stood there dumbly while that golden head had sunk. Chauvelin gritted his teeth and dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands. No, this wasn't any sort of failure on his part, he assured himself, his victory was complete. His enemy was dead. That was his victory, his final word. He shivered and put his arms about himself in an attempt at warmth, realizing as he did so that he must have lost his cloak in the chase somewhere back on shore. The thought of land rather brought Chauvelin back to the honest consideration of everyday reality.

What would he do now? All his ambitions had been made complete this night, and certainly, he could have whatever post in the government that he desired now, so there would be no sort of challenge in that area. He might pursue a career furthering the cause of his ideals, but, had he not tonight given all he hoped to this cause? Besides, what were ideals compared to the satisfactions of seeking to crush and dominate? He had all but forsaken his duties to the Republic of France in his endeavors to finish off the Scarlet Pimpernel, and for some reason now he did not care to go back to them. His daughter, the only person on this earth that he loved, was living in England – a place he had no intention of moving to anytime soon. His enemy, the hate of whom had been his sole driving force of life for well-nigh two years was now lying cold and dead at the bottom of the English Channel. There would be no more seeking him out, no more matching of wits, no more 'a nous deux'. Chauvelin had lived for vengeance the past two years, what would he live for now?

In an odd sort of way – indeed, Chauvelin felt strange to admit it to himself – Blakeney and he had been associates of a sort. Participants in the same adventures. Workers in the same trade. Chauvelin had dealt with ending the lives of those he thought proper and Blakeney had dealt with rescuing those very lives Chauvelin sought to end. Admittedly, Blakeney had been better at his profession than Chauvelin, and in spite of himself, Chauvelin felt a grudging respect toward Blakeney. Such keen wit! Such boundless intelligence, ingenuity, and cunning! Chauvelin had always been an admirer of such traits and spent the greater part of his life seeking to refine them within himself. Indeed, Chauvelin's intelligence really had been unparalleled until he clashed with Blakeney. He had almost forgotten what it was like to be outwitted until he tangled with that Englishman. It had been an endless challenge to devise a way to outsmart him, to outthink and ensnare him. Failure after failure had driven him well nigh mad. But now it all was over. His opponent was finished and Chauvelin was the victor. Chauvelin might now deal on in his trade of ending life with no fear of opposition. It was then that a thought occurred to him. There could never have been a Scarlet Pimpernel if it had not been for a man like Chauvelin, could there be a Chauvelin now that there was no longer a Scarlet Pimpernel?

Chauvelin began to feel very out of sorts, a feeling which was not very pleasant especially as this was supposed to be his moment of triumph. Now he began to realize that all he wanted at this moment was to make someone else more miserable than he was. Perhaps four or five people would be better, that would put him right back in good spirits for certain. He needed to control someone, to make someone feel pain just because he could make them do so.

The boat grated onto the pebbles of the beach and Chauvelin stepped out with his men, mildly surprised to see that the three men he had left on shore had been joined by a whole new squadron.

"Citizen Chauvelin!" The leader of the new group saluted him.

"Yes?" Chauvelin replied, his teeth were now chattering, and his whole body shivered, both from cold and stress. He snatched a cloak from one of the lesser soldiers, wrapping it snugly about his shoulders.

"We have captured the English spy's wife."

"Indeed?" Chauvelin forgot to remain professional in the face of this wonderful new discovery and allowed an expression of glee to lift his face.

"Indeed, Citizen," the soldier said, "we detained her in Calais as one of the guards recognized her from a previous encounter. We thought you might have some use for her."

"Very good, Citizen Captain," Chauvelin smiled, "I should like to interrogate her immediately, lead the way please. Oh, and leave a watch behind on this beach, I would like to ensure nobody walks out of that sea alive."

"What became of the English spy?"

Chauvelin paused and gazed momentarily back over the dark waters behind him. "The Scarlet Pimpernel is now dead," he replied at last, savoring those words that he had longed for years to speak. Words that now seemed to set a seal of reality upon the night's dreamlike events. "Mortally shot and left at the bottom of the sea. And if he is not, your men will know what to do with him."

A few of the soldiers from the boat were allowed to follow, thoroughly worn out and in need of refreshment – but the others were left behind with the newcomers. Even now, despite the fact that he had witnessed Blakeney's death with his own eyes, Chauvelin was not about to again make the mistake of neglecting to safeguard his victory – if only for old time's sake.


	5. Chapter 5: Without a Leader

Chapter Five: Without a Leader

If Chauvelin had turned, at that moment while walking away, he might have noticed that about five of the nine or so men left behind on the beach, looked rather lost at the moment. Quite as if they had suddenly lost their leader, or a trusted friend. But Chauvelin did not look back, and he followed the Captain back to the town.

These five men stood off to the side a little from the other four soldiers who were now spreading out with high spirits across the beach and began to talk amongst themselves quietly. The lonely sea breeze and doleful murmur of the surf muffled their voices, but if a French soldier could have been but a little closer, he may have wondered that they spoke in English.

"Should we believe him?" Hastings murmured, unwilling to accept the awful thing they had heard.

"We have no reason to doubt him, he was talking to his own men," Everingham replied numbly.

"The dog!" Tony said, watching Chauvelin's figure disappear into the distance.

"Hush, Tony!" Hastings remonstrated.

"I will not hush! I care not if he hears me! I say we all go forth and shoot the devil! He deserves it!" Tony spoke raggedly as he tried to suppress his emotions and he brushed his eyes quickly as tears sprang to them.

Most Englishmen would have been embarrassed by such displays of emotion. But, as all present were very equally distraught, it mattered little. There was even something like half a sob caught in Ffoulkes' throat as he said,

"We were too late. We couldn't even be there for him… at the end. He risked his life so many times for others, and for us. Now…" he swallowed and took a breath for composure, "I'm with you, Tony! Let's go and finish off that fellow for once and for all! Something we should have done years ago! Oh, God what am I saying?" he passed a hand over his eyes.

"We all feel the same way," Hastings murmured.

David Holte turned abruptly away from the others and knelt on the beach, his shoulders lowered with despair, tensing every now and then with emotion.

"Come now, Holte! We are not entirely with friends remember." Andrew admonished, "Get a grip man, what will those French soldiers think if they see you like this?"

"Do I look like I care?" Holte retorted over his shoulder, then added with biting sarcasm, "If they ask tell them I am 'overcome with joy', they'll believe that won't they? I'm sure _they_ are."

Ffoulkes was in no mood to argue and so let the fellow be.

Everingham had slipped away from his friends and had engaged in conversation one of the soldiers who had been with Chauvelin out on the water. Now he returned to the group and said quietly, with a voice drained of emotion, "He is out that way." He pointed, but did not look, out over the sea.

Andrew gazed over the waters. "Is that what they said, Everingham?"

"Yes," the man replied numbly, "It was Chauvelin himself who shot him, in the back, and they left him out there."

"We must get him," Andrew murmured, "we can't let those Frenchmen get their hands on him." Andrew forced himself to think of the tasks at hand. He could not think now, that he had just lost his best friend. That the truest and noblest of men had just that night, perished beneath the waves of the waters he now stood by…No, he could not think of that just now. If he did he would end up like Holte over there. Dissolved into a wreck of mourning. So he took Tony by the arm – who was swearing rather dark oaths at the moment – and led him in the direction of the rowboat. "Come, Dewhurst," Andrew said, "let us try inconspicuously to bring him to the Daydream, if we can find him."

"I'll kill Chauvelin," Tony muttered. "I'll kill him before he can even - "

"There will be plenty of time for that later," Andrew said, "Right now we must – Good God! Marguerite! But surely Galveston and Glynde will have done their duty and returned her safely to the Daydream by now."

Tony instantly withdrew from his morose scheming and stared at Andrew in shock. "Not if Marguerite could help it, and if she hasn't, Chauvelin will tell her!" Guilt at having forgotten about Marguerite while lost in his own selfish feelings pierced Tony to the core.

"Heaven forbid he does!" Andrew was almost paralyzed with the horror of what would happen were such a thing to occur. "I'll go on ahead and take the boat out," he said, thinking quickly, "tell Everingham to come join me. As for you, go take the others to warn Glynde and Galveston. You may yet pass Chauvelin if you hurry, he's only had a few minute's head start. Go on!" Andrew knew that this was perhaps the best task to set Dewhurst to at this moment, pent up as the fellow was with inaction. He knew that Percy too would have approved entrusting this responsibility. As if to prove this right, Dewhurst turned without a moment's hesitation and pelted down the beach back to where his comrades stood. Andrew continued on to the boat, his anxiety for Marguerite starting to numb by the sobering realization of what he was about to do. His best friend was dead, and all he could do now was to bring him home.

Tony had quickly reached the others. "Everingham," he gasped out, "you go with Ffoulkes. The rest of you, come with me! We have to go to Lady Blakeney!"

Everingham nodded in acknowledgement of the orders and set off down the shoreline. Hastings drew nearer in readiment, but Holte seemed not to have heeded the summons at all and continued to kneel dejectedly on the ground.

"What about the other soldiers?" Hastings interjected, "What will they think?" but he was quite ignored by Tony who had only one thing on his mind.

"Come Holte!" Tony remonstrated, to his friend on the ground. "We need to act quickly! There will be time enough for that sort of thing later!"

Holte gave no reply but put his face in his hands and proceeded to weep harder.

Tony walked around to directly face his comrade, took him by the shoulders, and landed a strong blow upon the fellow's jaw, knocking him flat over on the beach. Feeling a little better for having finally gotten to drive a fist into someone, Tony reiterated, "Holte! Marguerite is in danger of great injury! Can you hear me?"

"For heaven's sake, hush!" Hastings snapped quietly, "the Frenchies are starting to look our way!"

Holte looked up at his friend, gave himself a shake as though to try to put himself to temporary rights again, and stood up. "I'm sorry," he whispered ashamedly.

"Dewhurst," Everingham said, apparently not having gone very far down the shore before turning around and coming back.

"You were to go to Ffoulkes!" Tony said.

"Where is he?" Everingham asked.

"Why he's-," Tony turned in exasperation to point towards the rowboat but stopped cold in shock. "He was right over there," he murmured.

Sir Andrew was nowhere to be seen on the stretch of beach, and the rowboat sat quite unaccompanied at the water's edge.

Tony glanced at the French soldiers and noted that they seemed to be excited about something and were taking hold of their guns and running toward them.

"Fellows," he said aside to the league members, "I think we have been discovered."

Hastings snorted under his breath, "My only surprise is that this didn't happen sooner."

"Right, everyone keep calm," Tony said, almost more to himself than the others, and swore roundly under his breath. What was he to do now that Andrew was missing? The situation was just getting worse by the minute...


	6. Chapter 6: His Wife

**A/N:**_ Sorry for the time lapses between updates. Here are the last two chapters, I hope you enjoy reading them. Thanks once again for the reviews as well!_

Chapter Six: His Wife

Marguerite Blakeney would be the perfect candidate for Chauvelin to torment. As he approached the inn, still clutching his cloak tightly against the stiff seaside wind, he began to relish the opportunity granted to him. Chauvelin had grown accustomed to inflicting pain upon Percy Blakeney through cruelty to his wife, and even though her husband was now dead, it would certainly lift his spirits to have his final victory over him through her. "Not all has been snatched away from me, my gallant friend," he chuckled into the darkness, "I still have your wife - as has often been the case before. Only this time you will be unable to save her, and I shall complete my destruction of you through the one you loved best and dearest." This thought pleased Chauvelin immensely and he began to feel like himself again. It truly would be a victory after all. His steps became more brisk as he crossed the mud slicked street to the building indicated by his men and a faint smile curled his thin lips.

The inn itself was small and on the distant outskirts of the town. Two guards of the French army now stood casually at its entrance, seeming not to fear any sort of resistance on their captive's part. As Chauvelin entered he found Marguerite Blakeney standing before the fire in a small waiting room adjacent to the front door, warming her hands. Her golden red locks of hair were quite the more fiery for the light of the flames reflected off them. Her large expressive eyes turned coldly upon Chauvelin's spare figure, but showed no hint of the deep sorrow Chauvelin knew would soon cloud them, just as soon as she were given the news. The cruelty of what he was about to do did not bother him in the least at this moment. He knew this news could very well kill Marguerite. Perhaps that was exactly what he was hoping for.

"Good evening, Lady Blakeney," he smiled sarcastically, "it is rather a cold one, is it not?"

Marguerite sighed, "Chauvelin, in truth, I know not why you continue to try to capture my husband through holding me hostage. Has there ever been ought to give you hope that you might succeed in such proceedings?"

Chauvelin chuckled. This was going to be so much better than he had thought. "Perhaps I have succeeded, already," he said in a rather mysterious, nonchalant sort of way.

Marguerite knew this was intended to make her ask him what he meant by such words and proudly held her tongue. Whatever danger she or her husband was in, she had no intention of uselessly shaming herself.

Chauvelin took some snuff and seated himself in front of the fire. He was rather enjoying this battle of wits.

Marguerite had, by now, formulated an uncompromising repartee and said, "But perhaps you have not."

"Perhaps," Chauvelin replied casually, "but then, my men and I _did_ encounter a certain man on the road tonight, shot his horse out from under him, in fact, and the sorry fellow had to run from us on foot." He gazed at Marguerite to observe her expression.

Her abilities as an actress were serving Marguerite well at this moment. While she could not affect a careless temper in such a situation, she was doing very well maintaining a stony mask of inanimate lack of emotion. She spoke not a word – but gave a little shrug as if to say Chauvelin had not yet captured her interest.

Chauvelin continued, "He made it as far as the coast where he then proceeded to swim away from us. We pursued him in a small craft, overtook him and shot him."

Marguerite bit her lip as she heard this, and all the color drained from her face. She tried to make it appear as though she took a seat simply for her own pleasure, but the reality of it was that if she had not sat down when she did, she surely would have lost consciousness. "You must be more plain with me," she said tersely, "What does this man have to do with your success?"

"Well, now that he is dead," Chauvelin replied, "My success is complete."

Marguerite took in a little gasp of air and was suddenly on her feet. She did not care what her enemy thought of her now. Nearly losing composure altogether Marguerite pled, "Chauvelin, please have the goodness to tell me _who_ this man was."  
Chauvelin paused just long enough to let the verbal knife he had plunged into this woman's bosom twist a bit, then stated, "The Scarlet Pimpernel, who else but he?"

"Chauvelin, please do not jest with me," Marguerite's voice dropped to a low tone, almost threatening in her earnest demand, much as an omninous quiet before the storm, "it is more than I can bear."

"And so I do not jest with you my lady, but am rather in dead earnest." Chauvelin's cool voice took on an edge of finality. "Sir Percy Blakeney, the Scarlet Pimpernel, is dead. I have seen him so with my own eyes. Indeed, it was by my hand."

Marguerite stood very still for a moment. So many times before she had been faced with the possibility of her husband's death, and every time she had mourned the idea of life without him, but it was usually for naught as her husband always came through everything, defying all odds. It was enough to make this moment unreal. Enough to make it seem as though this was but another time when her Percy would outwit them all. No doubt any moment she would hear his foppish voice taunting Chauvelin or feel his strong arms encircle her. No, he could not possibly be dead, she could not lose her trust in him and believe his enemy – and yet! As she looked at the little Frenchman before her, Marguerite could see the truth written upon his face. Chauvelin normally had quite perfect control over his emotions, particularly when he set out to torment her, but as Marguerite studied his features she could see that he was shaken, and that he himself was finding it hard to believe his enemy was dead. She could see the glint of victory in his eyes and an all but imperceptible twitching of his jaw muscles that bespoke of the stress his high-strung nerves must be undergoing at such a time. Chauvelin obviously sincerely believed that Percy was dead.

The realization finally struck Marguerite and she let out a heart-rending cry that would have torn Chauvelin's own heart in two had it not been turned to stone. She sank back into the chair and let her grief come, regardless of who might see it. She did not care anymore. What was life without Percy? She would die soon too, of that she was certain. Whether death at the hands of the French republic or simply from terrible grief, Marguerite had no will to live any longer than she could possibly manage without actually physically ending it herself. Why couldn't she be dead this very moment?

Chauvelin was one of the few who knew of the great love between Percy and Marguerite, but yet he was unconscious of the full extent of its great depth and strength. Indeed, it mattered little to him except that it gave him something more to gloat over. His vengeance truly was every minute becoming more and more complete. This woman could feel so much pain and he might wreak a complete victory upon her through it!

"Yes, weep," he said, standing over her, a tone of mockery creeping into his voice, "for your dear, perfect hero who was always victorious – until now. I have put an end to him. Yes, I!" he chuckled. Just hearing those words, even from his own mouth felt like a soothing balm to his mind. "I have failed many times before but the last victory is the best and the victory is now mine! I have defeated he who was considered of a might beyond human capacity. It was I who outwitted the schemer whose plans never failed, it was I!" His voice had gradually risen from the calm level of insinuation to the cry of victory. Pausing now, Chauvelin's thin lips curled back in a smirk. "He has failed you miserably, Marguerite. What sort of husband was he to you? How he neglected you in his foolhardiness! Endlessly running about our country, rescuing people as though this petty goodness might somehow make up for his failure toward you." He laughed contemptuously. "I am happy now. Truly happy. I have had my vengeance upon him."

The words were torturing Marguerite. His cruelty was so relentless! He was trying to drive her mad, perhaps because he feared the same fate himself and wished to inflict it upon another soul first. His gloating stung her, as salt will when rubbed into a deep, painful wound. His hatred was piercing her to her core, at this moment when all her broken heart needed was but one comforting word. The fact that it was _he_ who had done the deed! And it was he who was so smug at having accomplished the feat of destroying the one who had been dearest to her – dearer than her life ten times over. His sarcastic smile, his cold, cruel eyes…Marguerite could not bear it any longer. A fury almost as strong as her grief rose up inside her. Clenching her fists so tight the blood left her hands, Marguerite virtually leapt out of her chair and whirled about to face the detestable man who had stood over her.

"Oh, stop! Stop!" Marguerite cried out suddenly with terrible vehemence, looking down upon the face whose features were, to her, the embodiment of evil. "You horrid creature! Did a mother's womb form you or were you placed on this earth by devils? Does your hatred, your evil, your vengeance, know no boundaries? What a vile wretch you are to find such pleasure in destroying all that is good! Disfiguring all that is beautiful! Hating all that is love!" A sob escaped Marguerite at this. "What _is_ your purpose?" She cried. "Would you wish the entire world devoid of happiness? May God have mercy on your soul!"

Chauvelin made a great show of calmly flicking open his snuff box and taking a pinch so coolly that he was certain Blakeney himself would approve of his unflappable reserve. "I can assure you such words do not move me," Chauvelin remarked. "I have heard similar appeals many times before at the tribunal from arrogant aristocrats seeking mercy. It is all the same to me."

"I pity you!" Marguerite said. "I know not why I should but I do! All you have is your hate, and when your hate is gone what will you have left? You will have nothing!" she cried, taking full advantage of her height to look down on her shorter foe and add weight to her desperate words. "Nothing but a great empty space in your body where your heart once resided because hate has eaten it up completely. Is that what you desire? To live with no love? Is this how you envisioned yourself, when you decided to become what you have become? You will die a miserable old man, friendless and purposeless. Is this how you truly want to be remembered? As the cause of sorrow to a woman who never did you ill? As the murderer of a man who daily risked his life for the sake of others?" A sob very obviously caught in Marguerite's throat now, but she took a breath and continued, "As a villain? You have wrought your human vengeance, but, as I am sure Julliette de Marny would easily be able to tell you, God has warned us against such measures. 'Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,' He has said."

"For those of us who do not believe in a God, we must make our own vengeance," Chauvelin answered, still apparently unmoved. "And I care not what others may think of me, nor how I am remembered."

"I pity you yet more," Marguerite said bitterly, "for a life without God is worse than a life without love. Yours will be a life of sorrow for your heart is hardened, and your conscience has died long ago. A man without conscience has gone past the point of saving. How can you expect to go anywhere that love is now without this crime forever haunting you?"

Chauvelin gazed impassively at the tearstained face before him and heaved a great sigh as if to say this discussion was quite too tiresome to be tolerated much longer. His habitual sarcastic smirk curled his lip – an expression he always could rely on to disguise any emotion he might have been feeling. Indeed, it was his mask just as Blakeney's foppish grin had been. Having thus managed to continue to hold Marguerite at a distance, Chauvelin turned and seated himself in a chair.

Did Chauvelin continue in his indifference because his heart was turned to stone? Or was it because there was actually a spot within the hardness that beat with a real humanity that he was ever in danger of revealing? A tiny spot of tenderness capable of love and compassion? Shall we laugh at the very thought of this? Chauvelin! Of all people! If this place did indeed exist in his heart he certainly must consider it a fatal weakness requiring suppression – or at least concealment – at all costs.

But, perhaps it _was_ so. For the vehemence of the distraught woman before him was beginning to recall the thoughts Chauvelin had been wrestling with earlier. Thoughts he ought to never have considered if he indeed had been as hardened as he had thought himself to be. Perhaps there was something redeemable in Chauvelin after all.

He began to wish Marguerite would stop, but apparently, she had no intention of doing so, for suddenly, her voice became very calm and serious as she asked,

"Will you ever be able to see your daughter again?"

"Now _that_ is none of your concern!" Chauvelin exclaimed. Really! Marguerite was going much too far now. She had struck him in the only place he had a semblance of feeling. The very tiny portion that was not stone.

But Marguerite did not stop. Perhaps she sensed she had finally found a hole in his carefully wrought armor of inhumanity, and she drove harder with her sword of words. She must continue for Percy's sake. She must not let Chauvelin defeat her. "Will you ever be able to bear the sight of the one I know you must love?" she said, searching Chauvelin's eyes for a glimmer of emotion but Chauvelin had closed them tightly and pressed his hand to his forehead. He did not want Marguerite to see that he was vulnerable. Marguerite now knelt at his side as he sat in his chair, still trying to catch a glance from his eyes. Resting a hand on his knee for emphasis, imploring him desperately for a response, she continued. "Will you be able to take your grandchild on your knee and look into his innocent eyes? Can you ever again accept the caresses of love and daughterly devotion that Fleurette ever has for you? You will know every time you look into her beautiful face that she is only alive through the skill and generosity of the very man you have killed tonight! If there is a shred of humanity in your heart Chauvelin," Marguerite rose again to her feet as she could no longer fight her sobs and the tears ran madly down her cheeks, "you must see! You must see, Chauvelin, that you will never be able to live with yourself!"

It was true. So terribly true. In her grief Marguerite had wrought a final victory over him, his plans and supposed triumph were turning ever less desirable. He did have a 'shred of humanity' after all. A remnant of the soul that had, once, a very long time ago, acknowledged the need for love. His heart was only very nearly turned hard. And now that Chauvelin had momentarily lost his grip on suppressing it, the feeling had come out to torment him. If Chauvelin had been in a stronger state of mind at the moment, no doubt he could have come up with an argument to counter Marguerite, or at least convince himself of her inaccuracy, but under the present strain his nerves were taking he could not. Rising abruptly from his chair, he turned his back on Marguerite and looked out the window into the darkness. Chauvelin felt himself shivering again even though he was right by a blazing fire.

He had long suppressed that pinched and tiny tender place within him. He could not acknowledge it and seek power, hatred, and evil at the same time. It had lain dormant. He had silenced it and it had not troubled him. Now it would be heard! And in hearing it, Chauvelin was brought about face to look at what he had done and recoil in horror and misery at it! Would his mind be able to handle now what this feeling told him? His hardened heart had given him no remorse for his evil. Now there was a shred of remorse and it was hideously awful! Was he actually sorry?

Chauvelin's mind was reeling. What had he done? Nothing had been right ever since he had pulled the trigger of that rifle. Without another word to Marguerite he strode blindly out of the room, leaving her to now resume her broken hearted misery in peace. Marguerite threw herself face first onto the sofa as soon as he was gone and wept bitterly.

Chauvelin stalked doggedly out into the chilly gusts of air whipping about the small inn. The world was not fair! Even in death his enemy had defeated him, cheating him of the victory. Blakeney had turned the destruction upon his foe instead! What was there to life if Chauvelin could not at least have one single victory over that man? Chauvelin turned his thoughts to ending his own existence but quickly came to the unpleasant realization that to do so would only give the victory to Blakeney again. For if Chauvelin's own success was supposed to have come in his enemy's death, then would not Blakeney's demise have been a victory to himself if it resulted in Chauvelin's death? He stared out upon the bleak, late winter fields surrounding the city, illuminated by the cold light of the crescent moon.

The world was empty to him. There was no one to love, and no one to hate. He snorted. There was not even a person that was worthy enough to attempt to control just now. Chauvelin sat numbly on a bench outside the town hall, remorse aching in his heart. He began to wish something that he never would have dreamt he would consider. He found himself wishing that Blakeney were still alive, that the deed causing so much misery had not been committed, and that any moment now, he would hear that awful, irritating, inane laugh…


	7. Chapter 7: Chauvelin's Confusion

Chapter Seven: Chauvelin's Confusion

Chauvelin was startled out of his stupor by the rattle of an old wagon coming down the road. He realized, by the faint touch of gray at the eastern horizon that he must have been sitting for some hours, and yet, despite that lapse of time, his heart and mind were just as sick and weary as when he had sat down. He leaned forward to stand but was deterred by painful stiffness incapacitating him. Fighting this agony, he forced himself to gain his feet and stood, rubbing himself in an attempt for circulation. At this point, if he was going to live, he had better seek shelter. Stamping his numb feet in the mud left in the streets from yesterday's rain shower, he woodenly made his way back to the inn feeling old and tired. He did not particularly wish to see Marguerite again, but the inn was the nearest public building promising some sort of restoration.

He noticed that the two guards originally at the door had apparently left their posts, for Chauvelin did not see them anywhere. He felt no concern over this, if Marguerite stayed or went at this moment it mattered little to him. The handle to the door of the inn was wet when he opened it, and bypassing the little room Marguerite had been in, Chauvelin ducked into the dining area, where he discovered the whereabouts of the two guards. They sat casually at a table, with some other soldiers in uniform, drinking some spiced wine and eating some wonderful smelling soup. Ah, well! Let the guards be warm and well fed if they wanted to, Chauvelin was certain he did not care enough to order them back outside. Chauvelin reached for the back of a chair to pull it forth and suddenly realized there was some blood on his hand. It startled him, as he could not possibly conjecture as to how it had come to be on him for it had not been there before. He recollected that the door handle had been wet and that this blood must have been what was upon it. Wondering where such a thing could have come from he glanced down at the floor and looked across the way to the small sitting room. Here and there he could see small drops of blood, leading straight from the front door through which he had entered, on to enter into the room where Marguerite had been. Fearing he knew not what, Chauvelin made his way to the small room. He did not notice that the guards had been watching him, nor that one of them had stood to his feet and would have stopped Chauvelin had it not been for his companion putting a hand on his arm and bidding him resume his seat. If Chauvelin had been even more observant, he may also have noticed that one of them bore quite a resemblance to a certain Phillip Glynde and the other to a man by the name of Galveston.

The door was closed, but not locked, and Chauvelin cautiously pushed it open. The sight he saw was that of Marguerite bending over someone reclined upon the sofa which was pulled somewhat nearer the fire than Chauvelin remembered it to have been before. He could not see who it was as the person's face was blocked by Marguerite's figure. She turned as she perceived someone had entered, suddenly revealing the personage.

It was a man, wrapped up to his chin in blankets, with a pale face and all too familiar features. _Had the men recovered the corpse already and for some odd reason deposited it in this inn_?

Marguerite tensed like a protective lioness at Chauvelin's presence and instinctively put her arm over the man on the sofa, whispering, "Percy…"

The man opened his eyes and Chauvelin found himself rooted to the spot in disbelief. He must be going mad. That was the only logical explanation for this. He was going stark raving mad. He emitted a noise that can only best be described as a strangled half laugh of joy and half cry of dismay.

"Ah, M. Chambertin," Sir Percy Blakeney said with his customary joviality, although considerably slower of speech, as if he were enormously fatigued, "You have done me the honor of paying me a visit. Forgive my manners, but until I become somewhat less of a human ice block I am afraid I cannot rise to meet you." He turned his head with a smile to his wife, "A little more brandy if you please, Margot."

Marguerite willingly put a flask up to her husband's lips. Chauvelin continued to stare at this scene in disbelief, speaking not a word.

"Sink me," Percy continued after taking a draught, "my dear fellow, I do not believe I have ever seen you look quite this way before. I suppose I owe you some explanation."

Chauvelin agreed wholeheartedly and thought that the explanation had damn well better be a good one.

"Well, let me start with where we parted ways," Percy began.

"Don't tire yourself my love," Marguerite interrupted with an admonishing whisper.

"It will only take a moment," he smiled and continued to Chauvelin, "Let me see, you had discharged your rifle into me – that was demmed unsporting of you by the way and I'm not quite sure I forgive you for that yet – and then you took your boat back to shore. What you did not know was that my wound, as you can now surmise, was not fatal. Not wishing to be shot at again by you or your men I slipped back below the surface of the water and swam round to the stern of your small craft. I caught hold of a bit of the rope trailing behind and thus was towed back to shore. Now, in the meantime, Tony had taken the girls we had rescued to the Daydream. Seeing that I had still not returned he gathered several members of the league – and Marguerite, whom I had allowed to accompany me on this expedition. My dear, perhaps you should continue from here?" Percy offered to Marguerite.

She assented and began. "We went ashore, the men disguised as revolutionary guards, and I without disguise. This proved to be a mistake as I was recognized in the town by a local soldier. Fortunately, his captain ordered that two of the disguised league members should hold me captive in this inn. He then ordered that the rest of the league members should join his men as he might be in need of assistance. As it so happened, he was on his way to aid you, Chauvelin, and had unwittingly recruited the Pimpernel's own men to aid in his capture. Galveston and Glynde, fearful at the narrow escape I had made, intended to take me straight back to the yacht but I convinced them to keep me in this inn where they could pretend to watch me and so have a good vantage point for any possible goings on. I told them they might let you in should you have a notion to do so. I hoped to gain information and was not in a position that you might attempt to utilize for ill. I will say that I had never thought to hear the tidings you bore me and that I _did_ believe them to be true, Chauvelin, and I shall say no more for you may ascertain what you wish of the rest of my response."

"To which I have something to say," Percy said with great severity, "You may surmise Chauvelin, the great extent to which I have temporarily been incapacitated by knowing that you shall not feel a blow from my fist on your body. God help me, if I were not so demmed weak right now you wouldn't be left standing, considering your actions toward my wife!"

"Percy, it matters not now," Marguerite said.

"I would spare you so much if I had been able to," Percy murmured in reply to her.

"So how did you get here?" the first words Chauvelin had spoken since this great shock escaped somehow from his tightly constricted throat.

Percy narrowed his eyes at Chauvelin, "Well," he smiled, "I suppose a story is not much demmed good without an ending, what? Now where were we? Oh, so the whole band of men managed to make it to the beach before your little boat reached shore. My men were utterly clueless of the events that had taken place out on the water. I myself was not aware of their presence on the shore." Blakeney recalled in his mind that moment he had finally dragged himself half out of the water, crouching behind the boat, aching with pain from his wound and loss of blood, and so numb with cold that he could barely move his fingers. He closed his eyes briefly to blot out the unpleasant recollection and continued. "They soon learned, judging by your orders and by word of mouth from the other men that I had been killed – or at least assumed so. The poor fellows didn't know what to do for a moment. I simply knew I wanted a dry coat and perhaps a good soldier's disguise. From my position behind the boat I managed to catch hold of one of the soldiers and yanked him over into my hiding place. Fortunately, this turned out to be one of my own men, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, I believe you are acquainted with him, Chambertin?"

Chauvelin nodded numbly. What else could he do?

Indeed, it had been a very fortunate thing that it had been Andrew he had grabbed, for the instant he had pulled him into his hiding place, Blakeney had all but lost consciousness from the exertion and would have been finished off easily by a loyal revolutionary. Percy continued, "Sir Andrew obligingly gave me his coat and with the help of the others of my friends, soon overtook the remainder of men who were actually faithful to your service, my dear sir. So there you have it! This inn being the nearest sort of place to obtain warmth and shelter from the cold, Andrew, Tony and the others…managed…and now…" he seemed rather faint again and he turned his head toward Marguerite. He gazed at her happily from under half-closed lids as only a man can look at a woman whom he loves more than life itself. "My dearest, bravest, wife," he murmured. Marguerite responded by giving him another sip from the flask of brandy.

Something in Chauvelin finally snapped. "Damn you, Blakeney!" he cried out. "Damn but this is not fair! You put me through all that and – and you're alive!" he started to laugh. Suddenly he felt very heavy and a haze came over his vision. Chauvelin realized he must be fainting. He had never done such a thing before but was certain that this must be what it felt like if he were to do so. His last recollections of that moment were that of the rough-hewn wood floor coming toward his face and that foppish, half-apologetic voice saying:

"Demme, sometimes I do feel sorry for the poor chap."

**THE END**

**A/N:**_ It was hard not giving away in review responses what I'm sure most of you suspected! So, now I can say what I would have said in the beginning: I would not dare to do what Orczy herself never did. Long live the Scarlet Pimpernel!_


End file.
